


Taint in the Blood

by orphan_account



Category: The Secret of Moonacre (2008)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-12
Updated: 2010-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Taint in the Blood

When he first saw her, he noticed her ragged pinafore, the man's hat she wore and the dirt underneath her fingernails. He knew her for what she was: a feral, sandy-haired forest child, the daughter of brigands. A de Noir. She caught him staring and threw clumps of mud at him, enraged. He yelled insults and, later, when his brother cuffed her over the head and chased her back into the forest, he laughed. Father always said that a Merryweather should never harm a lady, but it didn't matter. A de Noir could never be a true lady.

Years after, he would discover that she made a decent facsimile of one. In an old-fashioned scarlet gown, with her hair darkened to honey and her sharp childhood glare masked by new, adult beauty, she successfully camouflaged the de Noir taint. She sat on the stile and smiled. He was smitten. He hadn't seen her for what she was, he argues, because he was lonely. Because father was dead. Because his brother was ungrateful, and far-away, besides. Because there had been no Merryweather women, no ladies, for some time, and he could not remember his mother. Because the old blood, the true masters of the valley, had dwindled gradually to one, while the de Noir felons multiplied, an ever-growing pestilence on his home.

Wrolf, who can sniff out de Noir blood at forty paces, hadn't warned him. He looks at the dog and curses it, and Wrolf glares back accusingly. What good is this massive beast, the behemoth protector of his childhood, if a de Noir was able to infiltrate their home so easily?

He strides to the tower, where he ransacks her room. No, not hers. It is a Merryweather room – a room for the mistresses of the valley. She took nothing when she left him; it is all in place, from the amber beads that were his grandmother's, to the gold filigree hair ornaments that predate anyone he has ever known. In that, at least, she was honest.

She left her scent: woodsy and flowery, but not quite the scent of violets. It will fade. He is struck by an odd thought, that the scent has kept the manor afloat. There is something about his home (which in childhood he saw decay, every lintel sagging beneath the weight of his mother's absence) that improved with her company. If her scent, her plants, her flowers go, he thinks, the paint will begin to peel once more, and the furniture will slowly vanish. Every room will be bare, eventually. He had tried to stymie the decay with her presence. He had purchased settees and claw-footed tables, and repainted every room, in anticipation of his future wife. He had dreamed of revitalizing his home. It was foolish.

The curse of Moonacre dictates that the de Noirs will be punished, that the five thousandth moon will extinguish their polluted line in a single, vengeful supernova. This pleases him, but irritates him more. The curse of the Merryweathers is much, much worse. The Merryweather curse is putrefaction. His manor will rot and his connections will dwindle until, finally, his clan comes to a stuttering halt. His curse is not recorded in any book, and it cannot be undone through the discovery of magic pearls, or through courting the powers of nature. It's simply something he's always known, watching his home molder with every passing year. Foolish to try and prevent it.

He leaves the tower room, and sees, impassively, the portrait. It is her, his heart says, but his reason offers a correction. It is not her, but merely very like her. It is the first de Noir to capture the heart of a Merryweather. He will be the last, as he is the last of his line.

He does not want to be the last of anything. In a few moments, he will run downstairs, he will nearly trip over Wrolf, and he will escape the manor with scarcely a word to the servants. He will saddle his mount and comb every inch of the valley, even the no-mans-land of the forest, and he will pray that she has not left it. She cannot leave it. A true de Noir, like a true Merryweather, is drawn to Moonacre. He will be perversely grateful for her scoundrel blood.

He will stay out past dark, past the rising of that damnable moon, until the sky is streaked with daylight. Only then will he admit his failure, and only then will he be done with cursing himself. He will return to the manor, and he will say her name aloud.  
_ Loveday. Loveday. Loveday. _  
His coat will be torn, his collar stained, and his hands dirty. His eyes will dart about (but she is nowhere in sight), and his hair will be matted, intertwined with leaves and bits of twig. He will have no pride. He will be unrecognizable as a Merryweather.

Some time after that, he will sit before the fire. He will still be master of his estate, and he will be clean once more. Wrolf, his family's noble champion, will lie at his feet. He will take a glass of port, and he will appear every bit the resigned bachelor that he is. He will read something newly arrived from town, an excellent text on natural science. He will order Digweed to repackage the new set of vases, and to return them post-haste to London. He will declare that he cannot remember why he purchased them in the first place.

He will condescend to write his brother a letter, and in it he will explain that Moonacre has been very dull lately. He will sign his name, and he will take special pains with the great, flaunting "M," the crowded double "r", and the self-important "w."   
_ Merryweather. Merryweather. Merryweather. _  
He will think that his blood knows best. He will know what his blood tells him.

He will feel the manor begin to rot.


End file.
